Bethinking The Yore

Bethinking The Yore

May 28, 1946.

Beloved Grandpapa:

         It is now morn and the ninth hour approaches. I find myself embarking The Canterbury, a steamer bound to venture away from the Isle of Man in a voyage unwavering in its intention of conveying the vessel to its fateful terminus, a tangible Utopia, The Free Land. I am hopeful that this letter will reach you a few days prior to my arrival. Also, I am, upon my word, in high spirits at the prospect of seeing you and Grandmamma after all of these years that we have unwillingly spent apart from each other.

         Time, it seems, is running against me for the days and the nights were slow in passing here in London, thus it became that the passage of three days may have had the semblance of a fortnight. After having meditated for quite some time, I deemed it an unstoppable repercussion of the war founding my views on the blatant slow-paced development of Europe as opposed to how it was before. This enigmatic war that took place in the glorious and noble Europe —a beacon of light throughout the history of mankind, yet at the same time the cradle of innumerable vile acts and thoughts amid humanity’s saunter in this wide world— was only one of the many events in the midst of history that have shook this world to its core.

         The recent years, that are now gone, have without a doubt left a deep, pulsating wound in my existence, and yet this —it is my belief— has only served to strengthen me. As I explicated in the last letter I wrote you, the house that you and Grandmamma left me was seized by Nazi militants, ergo, Natan and I were forced to dislodge. Then, at a subsequent time I became acquainted with the knowledge that the dwelling had been bequeathed to a German commandant. Later on, we were both coerced to reside in a ghetto where a bantam room was given to us and six other people; needless to say this was a foul predicament. The days we spent there were snail-like in motion; a sluggish air was all about them and one could not help but notice the sense of foreboding that tailed these daily traits. Our nights were also ill-fated in nature, for they were as murky as the ebony cyclopean vault that lies in the heavens aloft, infused with the terror that habitually hauls that time of day.

         Scant months progressed under the shroud of a surreal light, and in the blink of an eye we were compelled to abandon the ghetto, only to be shipped off as savages to a labor camp. There we were persecuted by Nazi partisans who were driven by flagrant convictions —tenets that were becoming more palpable each passing day. They slaughtered our men, our women, our elders and our children in an inconceivable, alien manner. The abhorrence that the Nordic warriors had towards our people reached its apogee at the end of the war, when henceforth they committed unimaginable deeds … deeds I dare not speak of or even recall to my mind. I could not begin to fathom how we would not meet our doom in the final chapter of this struggle. Nonetheless, as by some divine act —even though we paid a great price with the many lives that were lost— we were able to escape from the enemy’s clutch.

         I am genuinely delighted with the promise of seeing you and Grandmamma in only a handful of days. It seems as though it has been ages since last we saw each other. Withal, I will write to you tomorrow, but for now I bid you farewell.

Always in my heart,

Elizabeth H.